Human
by bilboooooo
Summary: Sherlock and John stay up talking about their pasts. John talks about the war and Sherlock talks about the two years he was away. Sherlock surprises John and himself by getting quite upset about it.


_**Do not own Sherlock. Do not own any characters. If I did, well I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I was in the mood for some angsty comfort-y drabble. :) **_

_Mentions of drugs, violence, torture._

As a child, Sherlock Holmes knew he was much more intellectually superior to all the other children in his class at school. He knew that he was different from a very young age, and only had Mycroft to talk to, as what the other children called a friend. Knowing this, he also worked out that he must look into what the other children were like, to get a true grasp on what the 'normal' children were like. Sherlock wasn't even particularly fond of being like the other children, their brains were far too slow for his liking, but his fast and overactive one made him feel somewhat special, so he tried to cope. So, to get an understanding, he would hide by the corner of the school walls and listen to the loud and large group of girls always talking about their problems and their sleepovers. Sherlock thought that their problems were stupid and had no relevance whatsoever, but apparently, that's what the other children were like, so that was what children were supposed to be like. This process happened a few times a week, every week up until his last months of high school. He remembered them talking about how when they had sleepovers, they started off joking around and then conversation would seep into very serious matters about the whole of creation and why they existed, or to serious issues about family life and what they were feeling. Sherlock thought about Mycroft and how utterly absurd the concept of showing his feelings to him. Sherlock walked home at the end of the day thinking about that. About what it would be like to have a friend to talk to about his feelings when he was lonely. Which, he realised, was quite often.

As an adult, Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled upon his chair in front of the fireplace on a rainy May evening, and across from him was his friend, John Watson. Sherlock sat, engrossed in the Agony Aunt column in the womens' magazines. This was his new equivalent to sitting on the corner of the wall listening intently to the other children his age. He was glad he didn't have to cope with their shrill laughter this way. He noticed John staring at him, or through him, and put down his magazine. He turned to see what John was looking at, and it was a relic of one of their recent cases involving a soldier from the British Army. Sherlock watched as John subconsciously reached for his leg and then to his shoulder, tracing his finger over his shirt, where the bullet had pierced his skin years ago. A concerned expression appeared on John's face and he shook his head and sighed.  
"No, it isn't. I quite agree. Though, I never realised you thought about it so much." Sherlock broke John's deep thought and smiled as John suddenly turned a shade of red.  
"Uh, well. Sorry. Okay. How?" John asked, a bit flustered. Sherlock pointed to where John was looking. John just nodded and sighed.

"No need to be sorry, either. People may think I am an arrogant sod, but I do agree that war is quite a high price to pay." Sherlock stood up and retrieved his dressing gown from the couch. John nodded, "Well, Afghanistan was certainly not what I expected it to be."  
"What did you expect it to be?" Sherlock asked, pulling on the soft blue dressing gown and falling back into his chair. He was genuinely intrigued at John's sudden change of mind. His friend had never brought up what he had experienced during the war, apart from on a couple of very brief occasions.

They had sat in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock read John's face, he was trying to tell Sherlock about it as simply as possible, but maybe, this time, Sherlock could get John to open up even just a little bit. He wanted to know what had happened in Afghanistan. John, of all people, was the one person whom Sherlock could trust the most, but John was also quite private in his thoughts and feelings. Sherlock was always nagging him for information when he could. He thought of him over-hearing the girls' conversations, they had mentioned that it was good to have friends like each other to share everything with. It was only until this moment, that it fully clicked that boys definitely did not share everything with each other. This made Sherlock even more eager for the stories he longed to hear from John. He always wanted what he could not have.

"Well. Definitely not as truly exhausting. I was a frequent rugby player, always on the run. When I did my training for becoming a medic in the army, I had to prove my fitness a lot. It never exhausted me. I thought I was prepared, but a lot of the time things just went wrong. You had to be everywhere at once and as quiet but as quick as possible. And, that is extremely tiring in the hot sun with all your friends begging for help at once. It was sickening, basically picking and choosing who would have the better chance of survival by going to them first. I was too damn slow a lot of the time." John sighed. Sherlock didn't say a word. He had learned a lot in the two years that he had been absent from John. And one of them, was not talking or pointing out how stupid it was for John to think that he could be everywhere at once. He drew up his knees and closed his eyes as John continued.

"Bloody horrible. Especially when it went dark. It went freezing and looking for your injured friends in the middle of a war with only a gun and your sanity is hard, but almost impossible in the night. One time I got lost in the city and by the time I found the injured I was looking for, two of the three were dead on sight. Stenton and Barker, that was their names. Died screaming in each others' arms, and they were as close as brothers, you know. The third I was looking for was a friend of mine. Jimmy Edwards, he was having a panic attack when I got to him. Jimmy was in a tattered mental state anyway, but something have snapped in him, and I found him crying for his mother. I began to examine him and he had a bullet hole and a huge cut right across his abdomen. I did as best as I could and tried to take him to safety but his screams were really bloody loud. Wailing, so loud. An Afghan soldier heard anyway and in a moment everything was over. He appeared out of bloody nowhere, and shot Jimmy dead. He was about to get me but someone had struck him dead by the time he had the chance."

Silence. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John looking rather angry. Sherlock was slightly worried that John was angry with him for bringing up the subject. Before he could say anything, however, John had returned to the narrative and Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"After that, it was sickeningly lonely. Horrible price to pay, Sherlock. He was only twenty four. Twenty-four, Sherlock. Shot in the stomach, a knife wound and then his head blown off. I was bloody lonely. I had not a true friend in the world after that. I only went on for him, and Murray. Murray was the closest thing to a friend after that. He was the one who saved my life after I got shot. So bloody lonely though. It's awful being sick and on your own. But how would you know, eh?" John snapped. Sherlock's eyes flickered open and he was, admittedly, quite taken back by John's words. He felt the colour drain from his cheeks and a frown appear on his face. He didn't think that John thought of him like that. He didn't want John to think of him like that.

"Sorry." John said, rather sincerely, "Sorry, that was a horrible thing to say." John looked into Sherlock's eyes with a frown on his face. John felt guilty. Sherlock was quite hurt and thought about the two years away from John, his only true friend. It wasn't was not easy on him, that was for sure. He thought about when he got lost in an unknown city with no money or food, the time he got pneumonia, all the fights he got in as he hunted down Moriarty's vast web, and Serbia. He had never told John of the two years. And as he looked up at John's face, he regretted every time he ever made a snide remark about John's intelligence. In those few seconds, he knew that John had read his own face, and that Sherlock had gotten into some tough times in those two long, painful years. Sherlock thought he managed to lock them in his mind palace. Apparently, he'd now have to open the doors.

"You don't have to." John said, firmly. "You really, do not have to. But, in all honesty, I would like to know. Just to kill the doubt that you were off having a blast without me. You've told me that Moriarty is dead. You have told me that you went to kill off his web. As selfish as this is, just please tell me that you did not go off and have fun without me." John's voice was raw with emotion, not specifically anger nor was it sadness, just pure emotion. Sherlock was hurt. Not at John, really, but more at what John had said. He took in a deep breath and remembered about how the girls had talked about the sleepovers turning into eventful conversations. This wasn't a sleepover though, this was boredom in Baker Street.

"You want know. Okay Fine." Sherlock spoke, moderately calmly, "But, John, I definitely did not have _fun_." He spat the last word. Fun. Top on the list of the opposites of what it was like.

"Sorry, bloody hell, Sherlock, I'm sorry." John breathed, "Why then? What for?"

Sherlock lapsed back into his chair and closed his eyes again. He could see him in his mind palace, and in the very depths, far below in his mind, were the events of what had happened. He had managed to put them at the bottom of the pile, they'd seep out every once in a while, but they would not harm him like they had at the immediate beginning. He now had to open the floodgates for John. John Watson, the person he trusted the most. He now had to tell him the truth. He would not get emotional. Emotions were also at the back of his mind, and hopefully, they would not come too. Hope, hope, hope. Sherlock's mind started racing, he screwed his eyes shut as the memories raced into being. His heart thumped against his chest and the blood rushed through his veins. Panic? Panic? Panic? No. Not panic. Not now. Weak. He opened his eyes in a burst and nestled into his dressing gown for comfort.

"For you." The words came out rather dramatically, but it was the simplest truth. He did this for John Watson. Sherlock tried hard to keep his mask on, the one that hid all emotion from his face. It faltered but he managed to gain control. He saw John's face, John looked pained, humbled, and grievous all at once. "I went for two years for you. For Mrs Hudson. Even Lestrade. Moriarty had snipers on all three of you, I had to kill myself to protect you. And after that, I had to go and break down his web alone. It was not good. Two years I was technically homeless, Mycroft barely helped. I ended up in a German city for a while, it was the first time I was ever truly lost. It was raining, I remember that. There was nothing left for me to eat or drink, and I had had nothing to eat or drink for a few days. It was the last of the German web, and there was three terrorists I had wrapped around my finger. You know, when I am on a case, I am not one for eating as it slows down my thinking process, but this? I was desperate. Nothing at all. The three men were walking into the trap and I had to focus on that. However, there was going to be a fight, I had to fight them. The police and I had worked out a sort of plan to get them arrested, but it involved me getting into a fight. They walked into the trap quicker than I expected, I had hoped to get some food beforehand for energy but it looked like I had to do it the hard way. They met at the according place and everything was going well. For the law, not for me, John. There was a fight, and I lost. But the police came and made the arrest and that was the German went stamped out. Ended up with a bust face and a concussion though." Sherlock smiled weakly.

John bit his lip. John didn't like the thought of Sherlock getting into fights without him being healthy, happy and able. Sherlock agreed. John dragged and hand through his hair, it was the first time John had heard Sherlock open up like this, and it was quite heavy. At the mention of his injuries, John's hands curled to a fist.

"Concussion?" John muttered angrily, "You're bloody lucky that's all you got. You can barely feed yourself, never mind taking down a criminal web by yourself!" He was sorry for his friend. Sherlock knew John was not trying to insult him.

"Lucky then. I got into about twelve fist fights and a knife fight in Bulgaria. Rather nasty wound there, not going to lie now." Sherlock sounded slightly smug but John could tell it was his defense mechanism. John gulped,

"You didn't get cut did you? Please say you didn't." John already knew the answer.

"Yes. Quite a bit. And...more." Sherlock paused as John's face seemed to drain of colour.

"More? God, no…" John trailed off. He felt awful for Sherlock. He was supposed to be a doctor.

"I got stabbed three times there." He pointed to his shoulder and then his thigh and finally his stomach. John grimaced. He was a doctor, he was used to this, but not with Sherlock. Sherlock was never sick, never seriously injured. He sw imaged in his mind of Sherlock doubled over and in agony.

"Then I got pneumonia and a broken wrist in Spain after a beating. Got them in the end, though. I would have beaten them but I was malnourished. I didn't even realise it was pneumonia for a while, though. Thought it was just a cold. Wouldn't go away until I finally collapsed in some dusty back alley. A week and a half later I was out of hospital." Sherlock wasn't trying to list off all his injuries proudly, but he had to tell John what had happened, and as quick as possible. He saw John look ill at the mention of pneumonia. Sherlock knew that John was thinking that he should have been there, but he wanted to grab him by the collar and shake some sense into him. As much as it would have been beneficial for Sherlock's well-being, he knew that John could not be there to mother him and look after him all the time.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John sighed. "I'm so sorry. I mean, that doesn't even change anything. I was grieving for you for two years, when you came back I thought it was sick. I thought you were a proper, horrid, bastard of a psychopath. But, Jesus…" John trailed off. He felt knots in his stomach, for everything over the past two years. Sherlock stared onward.

"Then there was Serbia."

Serbia. The word, the place, the memories circled Sherlock's mind and clouded his vision. In an instant he was transported back there, the smells, the dirt, the sounds. He was ever on the look out for trouble. It was the last thread of the web. But it was also the strongest. He remembered how he was too poor for the slums, how he had to linger out the back of them.

"It was the last thread of Moriarty's web. Strong, but the last. I had to stay near the slums, I had ran out of money Mycroft had sent after the Spanish incident, and hadn't heard from him in quite a while. It was a bloody cold spring. Freezing wind and rain. I was ill again, from what I wasn't quite sure but it was feverish. The last gang was very hard to find, I nearly gave up. That was nearly breaking point for me, that moment. I had nearly texted you multiple times up to that point. This time I very nearly called you, in fact I would have called you. However, then my points on the gang came crashing down at once, quite literally. There they were. An instant later I was jumped and the needle struck my neck. I woke in a cell." Sherlock rubbed his head and shrunk even further into a ball. It was the lowest he had ever fallen, and it felt pathetic. John was shuddering at the thought of what Sherlock was about to say.

"Dunno. About a month and a half? It was the usual, all at once. Beatings, knives. Waterboarding a few times too. Kicked a lot too. Um, crow bars were most. They wanted information. I didn't breathe a word, so they got more vicious. I had a weak spot on my back after a fight, so they used that and the crow bar against me quite a bit. After a rigorous waterboarding session, they left the locks open and had to leave. It was my chance, so I took it. I ran, John. For the whole summer. I ran and ran and ran. I collapsed in the woods. I don't know much after that. I blacked out for ages. I was in hiding for a while but it must have been around late August or early September when I was getting chased again. I wasn't properly ready, the stab wound in my leg gave in and I collapsed around them. Then I got dragged away again. More secure this time, though. Chains." Sherlock gasped for air. He wasn't sure why he felt panicky, but he did. He realised that he had screwed his eyes shut. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and slowly looked up at John's comforting face.

It was like that for a few minutes. John was sitting squeezed into Sherlock's chair, holding onto his arm and rubbing his back soothingly. He was hoping to prevent a panic attack. John had never seen Sherlock so human before, utterly vulnerable and human. He hated it. He was like a lost child. He could see now, why Sherlock had regressed a bit upon his return. The mask of being a cold-hearted being was easier to him than to be human. Sherlock curled up into John's side rather like a cat. He wouldn't normally. But it just felt right.

"I thought about you the whole time. I thought about why I was doing this. For you, for Mrs Hudson and for Lestrade. For you. Then Mycroft came. Mycroft came and the thread snapped. After watching me get beat a few more times. But he came for me. And then I came home to you and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John. I need to know you forgive me, I'm sorry for the train, I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry I thought I ruined you and Mary. You were my only true friend and I'm sorry." Sherlock seemed broken. As the last memories of the two years pulled out, it seemed to dislodge his emotions too. He was crying. Only silent sobs from Sherlock as the tears dripped down his cheek.

John sat and stared miserably and painfully. It was painful to see Sherlock broken, he had only seen it before in Baskerville, but not as much as now. He'd never seen him so human, so ordinary. John pulled Sherlock in closer and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He squeezed his shoulder and rubbed his back and just generally clinged to him.

"It's okay. Okay? I forgive you. Okay? Of course. You're safe. You're fine. It's human, you're human, okay?" John choked out. He didn't want to see Sherlock upset ever again and he didn't want to ever let Sherlock go again. He made that vow for him. He would never leave Sherlock's side again. Sherlock meant everything to John. More so than ever at that moment in time. The only time he ever saw Sherlock get so emotional. They sat like that for a while, huddled uncomfortably on Sherlock's chair. Sherlock's hand loosely clinging onto John's shirt cuff. The whole ordeal was exhausting for both of them, but Sherlock had calmed down, and John made the most of it, as tomorrow Sherlock was guaranteed to be back to his usual self-proclaimed, arrogant - yet charming- genius.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock mumbled. John only gave Sherlock's wrist a soft squeeze and John watched drowsily as Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he fell asleep. John saw how utterly human Sherlock looked and smiled softly before also falling to slumber with that thought in his mind.


End file.
